Draco's Choice
by daisy3853
Summary: When Harry, Ron, and Hermione are taken prisoner at Malfoy Manor, Draco has a choice to make.  Give up Harry Potter, the Chosen One, or betray his family and the Dark Lord.


**This is for ElleCC, who so generously bought me during the Fandom Gives Back. She decided it would be fun to make me write something out of my comfort zone… very far out of my comfort zone. Haha. So just for Elle, since I love her so much… I give you her crazy idea for what might have happened when Harry, Ron, and Hermione were taken to Malfoy Manor in the Deathly Hallows. If you're interested, here's the scene from the movie which was the inspiration: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=IaJ2EqDHyUo**

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"Voldemort."

That's all it takes. One word – a name – barely uttered but clearly heard. Harry's lips haven't even stopped moving when they appear. Ron curses, Hermione screams, and the Snatchers surround them.

Ron fumbles in his jacket, and the last thing Harry sees is Ron's thumb on the Deluminator.

_Click._

Darkness.

Harry hears voices outside, but none he recognises – only indistinct shouts and commands. The rustling sounds of movement in the forest get louder and louder, and he knows time is running out.

"Harry," Hermione whispers. He can almost see her in front of him as his eyes adjust. He could swear her wand is pointed at him, but surely not.

White hot light blinds him, and as Harry falls to the ground he feels his face explode. The pain is so severe that, for a moment, he forgets where he is. Then Hermione is huddled over him, pulling off his glasses and issuing hushed warnings.

"Don't tell them who you are. You can't, Harry. They can't know."

He nods weakly, and the motion makes his entire head throb. He lifts his fingers to his face, only it's not _his_ face he finds. In its place are awkward lumps and skin stretched tight, and he wonders what Hermione's done to him.

Someone pulls him roughly to his feet, but he can only make out vague shapes without his glasses.

"What's your name, ugly?" That voice… Harry knows that voice. He's heard the way it rasps so gutturally – almost a growl. As recognition dawns, it sends a chill up his spine and nauseates him. That voice belongs to Fenrir Greyback.

"Erm… Vernon. Vernon Dudley."

"And what's happened to your face?"

"Got stung," Harry mumbles.

"Check the registry, Scabior," Greyback orders. He drops Harry unceremoniously and approaches Hermione. "And you, pretty? What do they call you?"

"P-Penelope Clearwater. Half-blood."

"Half-blood, eh?"

"It says here she's a student! A truant..." Scabior is excited now. "They pay extra for truants."

"Are you sure you're a half-blood, pretty?" Greyback asks. "Or are you running away from something?" He runs a grubby finger menacingly down Hermione's neck, and she shudders visibly. "Mmm. Delicious."

"Don't touch her!" Ron thunders. He elbows his captor in the stomach and tries to break free, but he's soon wrestled to the ground.

"Your little boyfriend doesn't like it when I touch you."

"Leave him alone," she whispers. The way he eyes her makes her swallow uncomfortably. "Please."

He opens his mouth to reply, but he's interrupted before he can antagonise her further.

"There's no Vernon Dudley in here, Greyback."

Greyback turns round to Harry, poking him forcefully in the chest.

"_You _lied to me," he snarls. "I don't like liars. Tell me your real name."

"I told you; it's Vernon Dudley. They've got it wrong. I'm half-blood."

Greyback leans in to examine Harry's deformed features. He's so close now that Harry can smell his sour breath, and he wrinkles his nose in distaste.

"Hang on," Greyback says, his voice slow. "What's this?" He fists his hand roughly in Harry's hair, pulling it off his forehead. Harry winces, both in pain and anticipation of what he'll find there. Then Greyback's eyes light up, and his voice takes on a greedy edge; Harry's stomach plummets. "We're not going to the Ministry, boys. This lot's going to Malfoy Manor."

They arrive amidst a flurry of excitement. Everyone is anxious for confirmation that this is the boy – the one the Dark Lord searches for. They're all desperate for the honour and distinction of presenting this gift to him. They hunger for his favour. Ron and Hermione are dragged to the dungeon directly, for blood traitors and Mudbloods are nothing next to The Boy Who Lived.

The only problem is that he doesn't look like Harry Potter, and Hermione's well-placed Stinging Hex has made even his scar indiscernible. It's possibly a squiggle, but definitely not a lightning bolt, and they can't be sure if it's really anything at all.

They're all eager, oh yes, but no one is willing to risk another mistake. The Malfoys know far too well the consequences when the Dark Lord is disappointed. They must be entirely certain that this is Harry Potter, and no one is willing to make that call.

"Draco, come here." Bellatrix's voice is a hiss, vile and low, and he cringes at her address. "Now, Draco!"

He straightens his spine and turns up his nose before sauntering slowly to where she stands. His jaw is set in a hard line, and his grey eyes are cold with disdain. He won't let her rattle him. Draco holds the advantage over her here and she must know it. He's the only one who can render this verdict.

"What is it?"

"Is this the boy?" she snaps venomously. Draco flinches. Her eyes are as wild as her unkempt hair, and he can practically smell her desperation. Her adoration of the Dark Lord borders on a sick sort of infatuation, and Draco is both unsettled and disgusted by it. "Is it Potter?"

"I – I can't be sure."

"Can't be… you can't be _sure_? You watch that tone with m–"

"Bellatrix, enough," Narcissa soothes. Draco can't tell if she cares what happens to Potter one way or the other, but this war and the constant battles it causes amongst them are tearing the family to pieces. If handing over Potter will end it, then his mother will support the action. "Let Lucius talk to him."

Bellatrix doesn't look pleased with her sister's interference, but she allows it, however grudgingly.

Lucius steps forward, and Draco has to try not to cringe away when he grasps his shoulder. It's too firm for a casual father-son touch and does nothing to hide Lucius's anxiety. If his aunt is motivated by her infatuation, then his father is driven by his need for redemption. He has fallen so greatly, but this – handing over _Potter_ – this could be enough to elevate him to his prior status. Draco knows that it's all he truly desires.

"Look closer, Draco. Do you have any idea what this could mean? If _we_ were the ones to bring Potter to the Dark Lord… all would be forgiven, Draco." Lucius' voice is sharp and eager in Draco's ear. The hunger in his father's eyes makes him nervous – it's the same hunger he sees in each of them. They're all desperate: desperate for power, for blood, and for the Dark Lord's approval.

Draco's weary of it all.

Harry is on his knees in front of him, with Bellatrix's fist wrapped tightly in his hair. She tilts his head back so he's looking up at Draco, and Harry flinches in pain. Draco flinches, too.

Harry is entirely unrecognisable. His face is pink and swollen, his skin stretched tight over lumps which shouldn't be there. His hair is a rumpled mess – just as it always is and always should be – but beyond that, Draco can't be sure it's really him. He steps closer, his eyes on Harry, and slowly drops to his knees.

He's less than twenty centimetres away now – close enough to feel Harry's breath on his face, close enough to see his eyes.

Harry's eyes. He's sure of it. They're the most startlingly bright grass-green, and Draco couldn't forget them if he tried. He reaches up slowly, hesitantly, and brushes a rogue bit of hair out of Harry's face. Harry's eyes close at the contact, and Draco swears he hears a soft groan.

"What – what have they done to his face?" he asks no one. Then more quietly, just for Harry, "What have they done to you?"

Harry's eyes open again. They're pleading with Draco, begging him not to do this. Harry is backed into a corner of the worst kind. He's unarmed and alone, and entirely at the Death Eaters' mercy. If Voldemort shows up now, Harry will lose everything.

"Concentrate, Draco." Lucius is growing impatient. He's already pulled his sleeve up in anticipation of the call he's so eager to make. His finger hovers over the Mark. "Make your choice."

But Draco doesn't know how to make this choice. All he need do is say the word. Give up Potter, and the Malfoys will rise again. Kneeling before him is everything – everything his family needs, the redemption they desire, the blood and revenge the Dark Lord seeks – everything. He's Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One.

For Draco, he is somehow less and yet somehow much more. He's Potter, the boy he's loved to hate for six long years. He's been the thorn in his side, twisted in so deep as to make him bleed. He's been his competition, his rival, his natural enemy. Harry has seen Draco at his worst: after he played a hand in Dumbledore's death, even if he didn't cast the lethal spell. He's seen him at his most haughty, his most confident, his most dishonourable.

Draco wonders if there's a reason he fights so hard against Harry. He wonders if there's more to this hatred he's always felt than he realises. Because the one thing he's learnt about Harry is that he always fights back – a Gryffindor through and through. He questions every ideal Draco was brought up with. He's best friends with Mudbloods and blood traitors. He consorts with house elves and befriends half-breeds. Draco would never. His family wouldn't allow it. Harry tries every patience and tests every nerve. He challenges Draco, and Draco's natural instinct is always to challenge right back.

He doesn't quite know what to do with these thoughts. The battle lines have been drawn, and Harry is on the wrong side. It's a line Draco can't cross without consequence. He won't.

Draco's hand lingers on Harry's forehead entirely long than necessary, just over where his jagged and deformed scar stretches thin. Harry hardly breathes.

"Please," he mouths, barely a whisper and too low for anyone to hear. Draco watches his lips form the words – watches the way his tongue peeks out when he enunciates the "l" – and nods minutely.

"It's not him," Draco mumbles.

"What did you say?" Bellatrix snarls.

"It's not him," Draco repeats, this time his voice drips with the haughty confidence it should, and Harry's eyes close in relief.

"Are you sure?" Lucius asks. His finger still hovers over the Mark, but his expression is all defeat.

"Of course I'm sure," Draco snaps. "The scar isn't there, his eyes are the wrong colour, and this git doesn't smell like Potter's foul Mudblood of a mother."

Harry flinches at his words, and Draco has to try hard not to react in kind.

"He must be another Mudblood, on the run from the Ministry with Weasley and Granger," Draco continues. "I'll take him to the dungeon, and we can sort out what is to be done with the three of them later."

He grabs Harry forcefully by the collar, dragging him to his feet and down the corridor to the dungeon before anyone can protest. He hears his family arguing as he leaves, and he hopes they occupy themselves with their disappointment long enough for him to make this work.

"Thank you," Harry whispers.

"Quiet, Potter."

"But I just wanted–"

Draco turns on him so fast that Harry doesn't have time to react. Draco's hand is at his throat, and Harry grunts when his back hits the cold, stone corridor.

"I said quiet!" Draco hisses. "Or do you want to give yourself away already? You're not safe yet, so do us both a favour and save your breath."

Harry doesn't respond, and neither of them move. Draco didn't realise how close they'd gotten – nearly nose-to-nose – until just now. Harry's face is starting to return to normal, and Draco is surprised to discover he's relieved.

"Why did you do it?" Harry whispers. "You hate me. Your family hates me and they want Volde–"

Draco claps a hand forcefully over Harry's mouth.

"Have you heard _nothing_ I've just said?" Draco asks, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. "Or do you honestly have some sort of death wish? Do you get off on near-misses and danger, _Potter_?"

Harry's eyes narrow, and Draco barely makes out the shake of his head. He realises his hand is touching Harry's lips, and he drops it to his side as if he'd been burned.

"Don't put this all off on me, _Malfoy_," Harry snaps, a new fire strengthening his voice. "You could've sided with them if you'd wanted. You could've let them call him."

"Is that what you want? You'd be dead by now if I had."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Harry's voice is full of false confidence, and Draco laughs sardonically.

"Don't be thick, Potter. I just saved your life. Admit it."

"I will not."

"You will," Draco hisses, leaning in close again. His nose nearly touches Harry's, and his grey eyes glare into green.

"Will I?"

"You will, or you'll regret it."

"You've changed your mind then?" Harry asks, his cocky grin taunting Draco. "Should I run and get your mummy? And Daddy too? Maybe he can make up your mind for you. Wouldn't be the first time."

"My father has nothing to do with this."

"So you just decided to join up with Vol– You-Know-Who on your own then, did you? Thought offing Dumbledore might be a laugh?"

Draco takes a step back. His fingers are tight around his wand, and he's ready to draw it at the slightest encouragement.

"It wasn't like that. You wouldn't dare insinuate if you knew half of–"

"What is there to know? You were just following Daddy's example, weren't you? It seems to be your speciality. Or can't you think for yourself at all?"

"He was going to kill my father! My mother, too." Draco points his wand at Harry, directly between his eyes. Harry doesn't seem bothered in the least.

"You should have let him." His words are cold as ice and just as cutting.

"Would you? If you had the chance to save your mum and dad, would you have done it?"

"My parents _died_ for me! They died so I could live. They would rather have died than see me as one of Volde–"

"Bloody hell," Draco snarls. He slams Harry against the stone wall again, more forcefully this time. "I thought I told you not to say that."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising."

"Stop pissing me off."

"Stop being stupid."

"Stop being so arrogant."

"Shut up, Potter," Draco whispers.

Draco presses his lips against Harry's, and for a moment they're both frozen. Shocked. Draco hadn't really intended to kiss him – he just wanted to shut him up. He couldn't listen to any more, and he couldn't let him say the Dark Lord's name. But here they are, lip-to-lip. Neither of them knows quite how they got here, but neither of them pulls away just yet either.

"Harry?" Draco pulls back, but only slightly – just enough for Harry to see his cheeky smirk. "I still hate you."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

This time Harry kisses Draco, and this time it's more than still lips on still lips. This time it's sloppy and desperate and so, so hungry. This time it's fire and teeth and tongues, chests pressed against chests, strangled breaths, and needy noises. With rough touches, they fight to get closer – closer to what, they don't know.

But then Harry hears the raised voices just down the corridor, and he remembers why he's here. He pulls back for a moment, his lips barely a breath from Draco's, and makes up his mind as to what he must do. He leans forward, pressing their lips together again. This time it's soft and gentle, but just as desperate somehow. An apology.

"I'm sorry, Draco," he whispers.

"What for?"

But Draco has his answer before he opens his eyes. Harry wrenches the wand from Draco's fist and shoves him against the opposite wall. Anger surges, boiling in Draco's veins and pounding in his head. His eyes fill with loathing, and Harry can't look away from the menacing curl of his lips.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" Draco shouts.

"I have to go. I've got to stop him."

Draco watches him for a long moment. He sees the determination etched in every line of Harry's face. He sees the passion, the confidence, the courage. He knows Harry's right. He knows he can't stop him. It must be done. It's part of who Harry is. And for Draco's part, he can't keep living this life just because of blood loyalty, and who he's _supposed_ to be. He wants to live his own life. It seems Harry is the only chance for that.

"Of course you do." Draco's tone is harsh, and he winces when he hears it.

"I'm sorry," Harry says again, more earnestly this time.

"Stop apologising," Draco says, smiling in spite of himself. "You better make this look good, Potter."

Harry nods.

Draco stands tall, and Harry grins when he sees his chin regain its usual arrogant tilt. He wouldn't be Draco without it. He doesn't flinch when Harry delivers a bloody lip and a broken nose, but Harry does. He leans forward in a rush, pressing his lips to Draco's again. It's tentative this time – another apology – and over too quickly for either of their liking.

Then Harry steps back, raising Draco's own wand against him. He falters for just a moment, and Draco's eyes narrow.

"Do it," Draco urges. He clumsily wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth.

"I…"

"Do it!"

"Petrificus Totalus!"

The last thing Draco sees before he falls to the ground are Harry Potter's green eyes, wide with regret. Harry turns and sprints to the dungeon – to Ron and Hermione – and to freedom.

The chaos which ensues is a blur. Harry rescues Ron, Hermione, and the other prisoners from the dungeon, and they Apparate to Shell Cottage – Bill and Fleur's home by the sea. Ron and Luna help Mr. Ollivander and Griphook inside, and they fill their new host and hostess in on the situation.

Harry doesn't follow his friends inside. He wanders to the beach – alone – with nothing but his own tangled thoughts for company. He falls to his knees on the sand, staring out at the endless ocean before him. He doesn't hear Hermione approach, but suddenly she's on her knees beside him, smoothing his hair from his forehead. He remembers stronger hands which did the very same not an hour ago, and he has the sudden sensation of something very heavy having settled in the pit of his stomach.

Hermione reaches over to wipe a smudge of blood from the corner of his lip.

"You're bleeding," she whispers. He smiles, running his tongue over the salty evidence of his last kiss. "Harry, how did you get away?"

Hermione doesn't recognise the far-off look in Harry's eyes, and she attributes the blush of his ruddy cheeks to the thrill of escape.

His answer is simple yet complicated – one word, a mixture of gratitude, disbelief, and something as yet unknown.

"Draco."

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**Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. **

**Lots of love to ElleCC for donating to Fandom Gives Back in exchange for this... and thank you for pushing me to do something different because, as much as I love Jasper, I actually had SO much fun writing this.  
**

**Thank you so much to oscar519 and profmom for beta'ing. **


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